Depends On
by gilmorefanforever
Summary: A series of oneshots based off of "Happy New Year B." Musical Verse Roger/Mimi with a bit of Roger/Mark FRIENDSHIP.
1. Trust

Depends On…

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own. I don't even rent. Rent is the property of the late, great Jonathan Larson, may he rest in peace.

The following oneshots are based on a verse in "Happy New Year B," and are being written solely because there is not enough Roger/Mimi fanfiction on this website. Or anywhere, as far as I can tell. I am honestly terrified it, because despite how much of a scary, obsessed Renthead I am, this is my first fic.

**--**

**Trust**

You fingered the packet of white powder, tossing it back and forth between your hands. It's funny, you thought. A year before, you would have done anything to be in this exact position, smack in front of you, no one around to stop you from using it. You wanted it, needed it, even.

Now you just wanted to throw it out the window, flush it down the toilet, anything to get rid of it. You knew it; oh God you _knew_ that "giving up my vices" was total shit. Stopping isn't as easy as saying the words. You stared at the object in your hands, contemplating what you would do. Throwing it out would dispose of it for now, but she could always find more. She'd managed to get this without anyone knowing. And deep down, you knew that you wanted to confront her, wave it in her face and yell into your voice gave out, or she understood that you couldn't take this anymore. Whichever came first. However, your decision was made for you when the sound of a door opening came from the other room the other room.

"Roger?" The door closed. "Baby, please tell me that's you and not some misguided thief who actually thinks this place is worth robbing." You heard her heels click against the floor as she slipped them off, but made no effort to move. It was if you were paralyzed by the sound of her voice. "Roger? Hello…" She held the word out until she appeared in the doorway, smiling and still clad in her coat. "There you are! Oh my God, you will not believe the night I had. First I—" She stopped abruptly and stared at you quizzically. "Roger?"

All words had evacuated your brain. The only sufficient reply you could think of was to lift up your arm and dangle the bag of heroin for her. Her eyes widened as she opened her mouth to explain/apologize/make excuses, but you didn't give her the chance. "You said you were going to quit." It was calm, calmer than you had thought it would be. Not an accusation. You weren't accusing her of anything. You had the proof in your hand.

"You went through my stuff?" Mimi wasn't calm. She looked like she was going to strangle you with one of your guitar strings.

"I was looking for a spoon," you told her as you casually tossed the packet into your other hand. "Guess I know why I couldn't find one."

"I can't _believe_ you, Roger."

"Oh? You can't believe me?" So much for calm. You didn't mean to yell, but it still came out that way. "Hmm… not being able to believe someone. That must suck."

"Shut up!" she shouted, stepping around you to go farther into her kitchen. She wouldn't look at you. You wouldn't look away.

"Excellent response! Really, that explains everything." You were being an ass. If you were her, you probably would have decked you. But were _angry_, damn it. How could she do this?

"Roger, I swear to God…" You waited patiently for her to go on, and stayed silent even when she didn't Her fingers drummed against her thigh and her leg shook, things that any other time could be mistake for impatience. When she spun and finally met your eyes, her voice had gone up at least an octave. "You don't know—"

You cut her off. "Don't you dare tell me I don't know how hard it is, Mimi! I know better than anyone."

"I'm not… I'm not as strong as you are, Roger!"

That brought back images of Mark practically sitting on you, swearing that if you moved, he would knock you out. Of you trying to get up and run out the door anyway. Strong… The word made you want to laugh. "As far as I can tell…" you gestured to the very thing that had started the argument, "You're not even trying."

She was trembling, and you had an overwhelming urge to get up and hug her, tell her it was all okay. But it wasn't. "I _want_ to try," she choked out.

You stood. Then you tossed the bag of heroin once again, this time to Mimi. She didn't try to catch it, just stared at you with surprised eyes. "Come find me when you're ready to actually give it a shot." Then you walked away.

Only to be paralyzed by her voice for a second time. "Roger…"

You had to be choking. You seriously couldn't breathe.

You leaned your head against the doorframe. "How can this work if I can't trust you?"

Mimi didn't answer, and neither did you. Just as you were about to walk away again, you heard her weakly say, "Tell me what to do."

That took you by surprise. "What?" you asked, turning around.

Her eyes practically glowed with tears. "I want this—us—I want _us_ to work. Tell me what I need to do."

_Get rid of it_, a desperate part of your mind roared. _Throw it out the window! _But she could go find it if she dropped it out the window, an even less logical side argued. You had a million irrational thoughts in a matter of seconds before you blurted out, "Flush it down the toilet."

She stared at you as if you had just told her to devour her left arm. That, oddly enough, was when you knew it was the right thing to do. Mimi shook her head. "I can't…"

"Yes you can!" you cried. "You don't need it, Mimi. I know if feels like you do, like you'll go insane or fall apart without it, but I promise you, you _do not need heroin_."

Mimi leaned over and picked up the bag resting against her foot. "You want me to…" She trailed off, as if the concept was too awful to speak of.

"Flush it down the toilet," you repeated, more confident in your words than the first time. You stepped forward gripped her free hand with both of yours. "I'm here. I'll help you." Hopefully she knew you didn't mean just that moment.

Her eyes drifted from you to the powder and back. It terrified you that she seemed to be having a hard time deciding which was more important. "Okay."

A smile slowly crossed your face. "Okay?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and gave a short nod. "Okay." But she didn't move.

"Mimi, you can't just stand there and will it to happen."

"You said you would help me," she whispered.

So you did. You led her to the bathroom, held her hand as she released her hold on the smack, watched as she kept her eyes firmly closed and her shoulders shook with sobs like she was burying her child. You guided the hand still wrapped in yours to the handle and pulled, and then you stared as the water swirled around the porcelain bowl. When the water stilled and the room grew silent, Mimi asked, "Do you trust me?"

You wanted to say yes. You were so proud of her, and more than anything you wanted to tell her yes. But trust went both ways, and lying wouldn't help. "No."

Her eyes popped open in hurt shock, and you gripped her hand tighter. "But I'm willing to try."

She threw her arms around your neck, whispering apologies and promises that you desperately hoped were true. Her tears stained your shirt and you rubbed her back while she cried. Silently, you finished the thought.

_As long as you are_.

**--**

There's part one. As you know, next up is "True Devotion," which is about half way finished.

Thanks for reading! Reviewing will make you my new best friend!


	2. True Devotion

**True Devotion**

You had sat down with your guitar in an attempt to shift your focus to something other than the things bothering you. It had the opposite effect, though, each strum and pluck if the strings made your thoughts play in your head over and over again, like they were the chorus of the song you were playing.

Benny. Mimi. Benny. Mimi. Benny and Mimi. Benny kissing Mimi.

Mimi liking it.

At that, your finger slipped, and you hit a wrong note. With an aggravated sigh, you set the guitar down next to you, gently, of course, because breaking it wouldn't make things better. You'd still be dirt broke, starving… and your guitar would be broken.

Not that your guitar was doing you any good anyway. All these months you'd been "working"—right. A twelve year old who had been playing for six months could write something better than anything you'd produced. You were starting to think that you'd never find your song, and it was time to find a new dream. A dream that maybe New York wasn't the place for. You had been thinking about it for awhile. Maybe if you just left, you could start over, be happier for what little of your life you had left.

Santa Fe had started out as a joke. Collins had mentioned one day when you were all gathered around the small table at the loft, eating cheap cake and drinking even cheaper wine to celebrate Mimi's birthday. Mark had shaken his head amusedly in response, Mimi had laughed and laid her head on your shoulder and Maureen had wondered aloud if there was anything to protest in New Mexico, earning an eye roll from Joanne. You, however, had thought it didn't sound like such a bad idea. It was warm all year in Santa Fe, so there was no worrying about having no heat on Christmas. It had to be cleaner than New York, because basically everywhere was cleaner than New York. And safer. You closed your eyes, imagining a small apartment you might actually be able to afford, without a jackass landlord who shut off your power and padlocked your door.

The thoughts you were trying so desperately to avoid took this as an invitation to come back, even more insistent. Benny. Mimi.

Mimi. Mimi. Mimi.

Your eyes popped open at the sound of moment from outside the loft's door. For a moment your heart quickened. Mimi? You quickly pushed the thought away. Mimi would knock. You walked over the door and pulled it open, finding Mark digging through his pockets and muttering.

"—can't believe I forgot my damn key. Why the hell did I lock the door anyway? It's not like anyone would break—"That's when he noticed you standing in the doorway. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here, Mark," you deadpanned. You could understand his confusion. It had been awhile since you'd been upstairs. "Forgot your key?"

"Obviously," he said before stepping inside. He glanced around the loft like he was trying to figure out if you had moved or stolen something. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. It hadn't been _that_ long. "Mimi working tonight?"

No. She'd come home from "work" an hour before.

You shrugged. "Maybe."

Mark cocked his head to the side. "Did something happen, Roger?"

"No," you snapped. "I thought I'd work up here tonight. Is that a problem? Because, like I said I—"

"Live here. I know." He stared at you a moment longer. "It's good to see you."

Mark wandered to his room and you picked up your guitar again, only looking up when Mark returned with his camera. "What the hell—"

"Zoom in on Roger Davis," Mark said, pointing the camera at you. "Who, instead of groping his girlfriend downstairs, is up here groping his guitar as if that's an alternative."

"You're one to talk!"

He ignored you. "My guess is that he's bitter because she insulted him. Perhaps she said something about his hair? He's incredibly touchy about his hair."

"Mark, shut up."

"Or not! Maybe she told him that those plaid pants of his," he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, "aren't as cool as he thinks they are."

"Mark! Damn it, stop."

Mark lowered his camera. "Roger, I'm not an idiot. I have barely seen you in weeks, and suddenly you're up here moping?"

"_Moping_?" you questioned. He continued as if you hadn't spoken.

"Something happened between you and Mimi, and I don't plan on just sitting here and while you screw things up with her."

Well. _That_ was offensive. "What makes you think _I_ did something?"

Mark raised his eyebrows, making it clear that that answer should be obvious, but he didn't answer your question. "These past few months, you've been happier than I've seen you since…" He hesitated for a moment, and you winced, already knowing how the sentence would end. "April. You're happier than I've seen you since April died." He paused, watching you to gauge your reaction.

Even you were surprised by how little it hurt. A small jolt of sadness came at the mention of your ex-girlfriend, but it was nowhere near the all-consuming pain and guilt that had been your only companion for months. You nodded slowly.

Mark smiled. "You just proved my point."

"Huh?"

"Eight months ago, hell, _six_ months ago, the mere implication of anything having to do with April—including the month. The _month_ Roger, that's how pathetic you were—"Your eyes widened a little bit at the word pathetic, but you were too stunned to interrupt. "—would make you either start crying or threaten to kick my ass. I've said her name _three times_ and you're fine! Mimi's good for you. What's worth giving that up?" You didn't respond, but Mark figured it out on his own, like he had read your mind. "Roger… no. Seriously?" You sometimes wish he didn't know you so well. "Benny?"

"Don't say it like that!" you said, clutching the neck of your guitar tightly against your shoulder.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm crazy for caring so much!"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Even though you _are_?" You glared at him. "Look, Mimi's not cheating on you with Benny."

"How do you know?"

"Well, for one, Mimi has better taste than that." He grinned, and you knew you were supposed to find it funny, but you couldn't bring yourself to laugh, or even smile, about this. Mark sighed. "C'mon, you enjoy making a mockery of Benny's faults. It was your favorite activity when he lived here."

You clenched your jaw. "She dated him before."

"Roger, that was months ago."

"Then she lied about it…"

"I imagine she knew you'd overreact."

You crossed your arms. "Shouldn't you be on my side?"

"You know I'm on your side, Roger. And part of being on your side is telling you when you are acting like an idiot. I know she's not cheating on you."

You scoffed, and before you could stop yourself asked, "Like you knew Maureen had 'changed her ways' and was one hundred percent faithful?" He recoiled as if you slapped him, and you winced, because you might as well have. "Mark…"

"Mimi's not Maureen. And she loves you." He stood up. "And you're a jackass." He stormed into the kitchen, only to return less than a minute later.

"Look, Mark, I—"

"We need food," he said suddenly.

You blinked, and then stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Food. You know, that edible stuff that you ingest to keep from dying a slow painful death?" You were shocked, both by the random topic change and the fact that Mark was talking to you about slow painful deaths. Usually he wouldn't even say 'death' in your presence. "We need some."

"Well—"

"And… coffee. We need coffee."

"Not _need_…"

"And we need to pay the damn rent!"

You laughed. "Since when?"

Mark glared at you. "I set up a meeting with Alexi Darling. From Buzzline. They need directors. And we need money."

"Mark, that's totally selling out…"

"You think I don't know that? That phone call literally sucked out my soul. But sometimes you have to look at the bigger picture. It's life. You have to deal with shit, and try to be as happy as you can. Sometimes, it doesn't matter if your job sucks or your girlfriend once dated someone you don't like." He stared at you pointedly.

"I—"

"You know those life support meetings Angel loves so much? No day but today? You know what, you're wasting today, when you know you've got someone waiting for you. It's not too late this time! I am your _best friend_, Roger, and I'm not watching you go through this again. So go downstairs and talk to Mimi."

"I can't!"

_Knock knock knock_.

You looked up at the ceiling, or God, or whatever the hell was up there, sometimes you didn't know, and thought _now_? Mark smirked.

"Well, then that's convenient." You looked at the door then back to Mark, who frowned. "Aren't you going to get that?"

You shook your head. "No."

"Roger! Jesus Christ, do you _ever_ listen?"

"Maybe it's not Mimi!" you said, wishing you could believe your own words.

"Oh?" Mark asked. "Who is it, then?"

You searched your brain for the first name you could think of that wasn't Mimi. "Collins!"

Mark laughed. "If it was Collins, we'd be hearing someone telling us to get off our lazy white asses and throw him the key, not knocking."

"Angel?" you offered, less confidently.

"Is here without Collins because…?"

"Maureen!"

"Roger," he said slowly. "Do you hear how the person outside stopped knocking and is patiently waiting for someone to answer?"

Definitely not Maureen then. That had been a stupid response. "Joanne?" was your final attempt, and even you knew that was a long shot.

"I don't even think Joanne likes us."

You glanced back at the door again. "Mark, I really don't think I can…"

Mark threw up his arms. "You're hopeless, I swear. _I'm_ answering the door."

"Don't!"

He stopped, already halfway to the door, and repeated himself from earlier. "I'm not watching you do this to yourself again, Roger." A moment later the door opened.

When Mimi's small voice greeted Mark and asked where you were, you knew that Mark had been right. So you set your guitar down and waited.

Mark stepped aside to let Mimi in, and then gave you another pointed look. You didn't know when he had gotten so good at those. "You two, kiss, make up, and if the making up requires more than kissing, take it downstairs."

You found yourself grinning in spite of yourself, and mouthed 'thanks Mark' as your friend walked away. He shrugged and pointed to Mimi.

She had obviously been crying, which made you feel worse than you had before. You were struck by the thought that she could be screwing half of New York and you would still care about her. You weren't sure if that should scare you or if it was just another sign that Mark was the smarter of the two of you. "I'm an idiot," you offered as a greeting.

She smiled. "I noticed."

"A jealous, paranoid idiot," you continued.

"I noticed those, too." Mimi took a few small steps forward. "Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it freak you out if I told you that you were the best thing that ever happened to me? I know it's kind of fast, but I seriously think I lo—"

You stopped her. "Come here."

"But I—"

"Mimi, please?"

When she got into arms reach, you pulled her into a hug, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. "I'm sorry."

Her arms wrapped tightly around your neck, and she whispered, "I'm all yours, Roger. Don't you get that?"

You thought of the words she had been about to say, and held her more tightly to you. "I actually think I'm starting to."


	3. Love

**Love**

It had seemed like you and Mimi were preparing to say goodbye from the day you met.

"_So," Mimi said casually, holding your hand. It didn't feel awkward, as you expected it to. Her hands were tiny, but her grip was surprisingly strong. When you had commented on it, she had rolled her eyes and told you pole dancing was a great workout. You had laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months. _

"_So," you echoed. _

"_The whole dancing on tables thing… Is that normal behavior for you and your friends?"_

"_Of course not," you told her, nodding seriously. "We toned things down a bit for the benefit of those new to the group." _

_She grinned. "Is that so?" _

"_Oh yes." You threw your arm around her shoulder. "I mean, Maureen, more or less, kept her clothes on, which is quite an achievement. Collins spoke in a language normal people can understand! And Mark… acted like himself, actually. There is no toning down Mark." _

"_Wow, it's a miracle they haven't kicked you out and banned you."_

_You laughed again, finding that you really liked her ability to make you do so. "They don't kick people out at the Life Cafe! I mean, how sad would it be to get kicked out of Life?" Mimi's face suddenly fell, and you pulled her to an abrupt stop. "Mimi? Did I say something?"_

"_Do you ever think about it?" she whispered._

_You were confused. "About what?" _

_She pulled on your arm, and you began walking again, at a faster pace than you had before. "Are you cold? I'm freezing." _

"_It's… December. Of course it's cold. What were you so upset about?" She shook her head, ignoring the question. "Come on Mimi, you can talk to me." _

_She pulled her hand out of yours. "You know we just met, right Roger? Literally, _just_ met." _

_You watched Mimi speed up even more until she was several steps ahead of you, slightly hurt. You honestly had no idea what you said or done, just knew that whatever it was had sparked a side of her you hadn't expected to exist. But she was right, you barely knew her. It only felt like you did. "Look," you began, "Mimi, I—" _

"_I'm sorry," she cut you off. She had stopped, and you took the opportunity to catch up to her. "I've being overdramatic." Her hand found yours again. "Can we just… get to our building? Even with no heat it's got to be warmer than out here." _

"_Um…" You were beginning to wonder if she was bipolar. "Sure," you said, even though you weren't positive you wanted to get to your building. Despite the bitter wind and the snow that was still falling just as persistently as it had at the beginning of Maureen's protest, something inside you felt warm the first time for the first time in a long time. You knew the girl that was leaning her head against your shoulder had a lot to do with that. "Of course."_

_The silence that followed was short-lived, as Mimi felt the need to resume your conversation from before. "Hey, Roger, what were you toning down?" _

"_What?"_

"_Before you said you all toned it down at the Life Cafe…" _

"_Except Mark," you interjected. _

"_Right. So my question is: what are you usually like, Mr. Davis?" _

_You smirked at her. "Wouldn't you like to know?"_

_Mimi's rolled her eyes as the building came into view, and then grinned at you—well, "timidly" wasn't the word, you had quickly learned she wasn't the type to be timidly, but she seemed momentarily unsure of herself. "Thanks for… walking me here, I guess."_

_You shrugged. "I live in the same building as you. It's not like I went out of my way." _

_The grip on your hand loosened, and Mimi leaned in, to kiss you on the cheek, most likely, but you turned your head so she got your lips instead. She wasn't surprised, and a moment later, you were kissing—really kissing. Not like the one from earlier in the night, when she was just a girl tempting you, begging you to take her out when you knew you couldn't. Not like the relatively short and sweet one you had shared awkwardly outside the Life Cafe. You stumbled, still attached at the mouth, up 11__th__ Street until you somehow ended up in front of the door to your building. However, when you attempted to maneuver your arm around Mimi to open the door, it wouldn't budge. You broke the kiss. "What the he—" _

_A silver chain covered the door, in the center of which hung a large padlock. You yanked on it, hoping it would magically break, and when it didn't, you yelled a long list of profanities, ending with the foulest word of all. "Benny."_

"_Is that even legal?" Mimi asked incredulously._

_You scoffed. "I'm sure Benny doesn't care. He shut off our power off on _Christmas Eve_." _

"_I'm pretty sure that actually was legal…" You glared at her. "Heartless," she added. "But legal." _

"_Regardless, we have to get back in!" You, stupidly, punched the door, then recoiled as an overwhelming pain spread through your hand. "Shit!" _

_Mimi rubbed your shoulder and guided you to sit down on the stoop, which was still covered with snow. "Maybe your fist isn't the tool we want to use to break down the door, Roger."_

"_I can't believe he padlocked the damn door!"_

"_I can't either. But I'm not hitting things." You wondered how she could possibly be amused by this, why she was smiling at you. _

"_We're not the only ones who live in the building, you know. It's got to take a sociopath or something to lock an entire apartment building, on Christmas, shortly after cutting the power."_

"_Roger, are you mad because Benny's a prick or because a padlock," she tapped the door, "totally ruins the mood?"_

_You stared at her before admitting, "A little bit of both, I guess."_

_She laughed. "Look, let's just wait for the others and figure it out from there." _

"_And until then?" Most of your thoughts would be unadvisable with the temperature so low and the fact that you were outside._

"_I don't know… we talk?" _

"…_About?" _

"_Whatever you want. I'm generous and will let you chose."_

"_What were you so angry about earlier?" you asked. She froze. "I mean, I commented about how getting kicked out of the Life Cafe is near impossible…"_

"_You said 'getting kicked out of life'" she said. It didn't help your confusion at all. "Forget it… like I said, I was being overdramatic."_

"_No, go on."_

"_Do you ever think about it?" _

"_It?" Your mind jumped to high school, where 'it' had pretty much always meant sex. You didn't think that's what Mimi was referring to, though. _

"_AIDS," she whispered. _

_Of course you thought about it. All the time. It wasn't as if it was something you could ignore, not when you reminded constantly by a beeper, and a best friend who poorly concealed his pity. "What about it?"_

"_It's going to _kill_ us, probably soon. One mistake," she laughed bitterly, "okay, several mistakes, and we're getting," her eyes met yours "kicked out of life."_

_The words took a moment to hit you, and when they did, you could only do one thing. You wrapped your arms around Mimi and hugged her tightly. _

In the beginning, when you were blissfully ignorant to problems you and Mimi would eventually face, you didn't realize that this would set a pattern for the rest of your relationship. But that was how it played out. Mimi, sometimes you, would get upset about something; the other would try to talk to them about it. The climax always came when someone started yelling, and you inevitably punched something. Then you would forgive, and she would too, just because you were both happy to have someone who understood.

You knew, deep down, that you couldn't keep forgiving forever, though.

_The last time you'd seen Mimi was when she had run out of the loft to 'get some air.' You two had fought. Again. Drugs, Benny, her job, your lack thereof… It was all starting to sound like the same fight to you. _

_That was three days ago, and you were beginning to worry. _

_You were on your way to the loft—Angel insisted she left her drum sticks there, which you thought was unlikely, but you considered it wise not to mention this. Collins eyes had shot to you pleadingly. With Angel's health deteriorating by the day, you knew he didn't want to leave her bedside for longer than a few minutes, so you offered to run back and look. Besides, you figured it would give you a chance to check on Mimi. _

_It was getting cold again, which suited the gloomy turn of events that surrounded your group of friends. Everyone seemed to be falling apart, you and Mimi couldn't seem to stop fighting, nor could Maureen and Joanne (not that that was such a change). And Angel… You shook your head and tightened you jacket around you. _

_When you reached what had once been the lot next to your building, home to tent city and protests, you stopped for a moment. Construction had been going on for months, and the beginnings of what would soon be a tall building now rose up into the air. _

_COMING SOON… CYBERARTS! You glared at the sign. Someone had taken the liberty of taking a black permanent marker to it, so that the words "Sponsored by Grey Communications" were barely visible under what appeared to be Benny having sex with… you turned your head to the side for a better view. Was that a cow? You didn't think Maureen would approve. _

_Just as you were about to continue past the sign, you paused again, spotting two figures nearly concealed in the darkness of the alley between your building and the one that would soon be Benny's Cyberart Studio. Your stomach dropped when you noticed the woman was wearing a leopard print coat. Even from behind, it was obvious who it was. Mimi glanced behind her, a worried expression on her face, checking for police ("or you," a voice in your head added. You ignored it). And that's when it hit you, hard._

"_It's over," you told yourself sadly as you came out from behind the sign, walking towards Mimi and The Man. _

"_It's _over_!" she shouted to your receding back five minutes later._

It seemed like a cruel practical joke when you arrived upstairs to find the answering machine blinking at you, the one message waiting consisting of two words, barely choked out through tears.

"It's over."

_Losing Angel, watching Collins lose Angel, put things into perspective. Your decision to end things with Mimi seemed ridiculous now, unfair almost, even though you had been so sure about it at the time. Maybe you could make it work if she went to a clinic, you told yourself. Maybe if you could make it work if you spent more time with her. Maybe you could make it work if she quit her job. Maybe you could make it work if…_

_The maybes brought you to the Catscratch Club, waiting patiently just within the door for her to get off her shift. You glanced around the crowd of drunk, horny men, searching for her, remembering the days when you and Mark would come here all the time. That was before April, when you both had just moved to the city, when Mark secretly confided his attraction to your new roommate Maureen to you and you considered Benjamin Coffin the third a close friend. How times changed. Now this place made you extremely uncomfortable, with its loud music and bright flashing lights. You jumped nearly a foot in the air when you felt a tap on your shoulder. _

"_Are you looking for something?" It was one of the dancers. _

"_Um… yeah," you told the girl, slightly embarrassed by your reaction."Someone, actually." _

_She smirked at you in a way that you assumed was supposed to be seductive. "Well, can I help?" Once you got past the heavy layer of stage makeup, the girl looked young, even younger than Mimi. It made your stomach sick. "My name's Sandy." _

_You ignored her. "Have you seen Mimi?" you asked. After a moment of thought, you added. "Marquez?"_

_Sandy seemed disappointed. "Yeah, I know who you mean. She left about an hour ago." _

"_Oh. Thanks," you turned to leave, feeling stupid for coming here, when Sandy stopped you, adding something that she had apparently just remembered._

"_She was with this guy… he's been coming around a lot lately, actually, but I've never actually seen her leave with him before today." She chuckled. "I'm sure she wouldn't have if she had known someone who looks like you was gonna come looking for her." _

_Your heart stopped. _

"_His name was… oh God, I have the worst memory. Kenny or something?" _

When Mark came home, he didn't seem too surprised to find you staring at your empty guitar stand. He didn't seem too surprised when you told him you were leaving after the funeral, either.

_You shouldn't have gone to the funeral. It was fair to Angel, or Collins, for that matter, for you to go when you knew Mimi would be there. But you had been so sure you could handle seeing her, so sure that she had hurt you enough that it couldn't possibly get any worse. It did, though. It got infinitely worse when you saw _him _holding her as she cried for her friend, when she walked out of the church holding_ his_ hand. Something inside you snapped, and soon you were yelling. Yelling at her, yelling at Mark, yelling at yourself for being so goddamned stupid. Then she showed up at your door, near tears, pretending like she understood. _

"_You don't want baggage without lifetime guarantee…" _

_Mimi had never seemed to be able to grasp that it wasn't her baggage you were scared of. _

_Yelling was replaced by running, running to get anywhere but there. Santa Fe, Scarsdale, Los Angeles, the fucking moon—it didn't matter anymore. Not really. Running was stopped, though, when you found Benny outside, about to enter the building. Yelling wanted back, then, and it wanted to be joined by punching, and murdering, if that was at all possible. _

"_Roger…" he said, meeting your eyes. _

_You stared back, pouring all the hatred you could muster into a single look. You hated him, more than you had ever hated anything in your life. Or was it him you hated? Him or the fact that he represented almost all the reasons you were leaving. _

"_Do you need anything?" he had the audacity to ask. "You're going to need money for gas… And a place to live." _

_It took a lot to repress the urge to tell him where he could stick his charity, but you ignored the question, turning away from him and throwing your lone duffle bag into the trunk of your car. Benny sighed. By the time you had reached the driver's door, you realized, to your horror, that the answer to his question was yes. _

_You did need something. Something more important than gas, or an apartment, or even the fact you could barely stomach looking at Benny's face. "Take care of her." _

_Benny, who had been about to go inside, looked surprised. "What?"_

_You stared at the ground, speaking just loud enough for him to hear you. "Make sure she eats, she can't get any skinnier, and that she takes her AZT. And… and…" You were crying. In front of Benny. What the hell was wrong with you? "Try to get her into rehab, okay? She won't want to go, but that stuff is going to kill her." You finally looked up. "Okay?" you repeated. _

_He nodded, and, as satisfied as you could be, you opened the door. "Roger, wait." Your head shot up. "She still—" _

"_Benny, no," you cut him off, sitting down in the car. _

"_You don't have to go, you know," he yelled as you started to close the door._

_You gave him one last look, though this one wasn't scathing. "Yes, I do." _

Goodbye, love.


	4. Not Denying Emotion

**AN: **This is written with very little knowledge of Santa Fe. Please excuse the errors, and I hope no one's offended by Roger's pessimistic thoughts.

**Not Denying Emotion**

You had done a lot of difficult things in your life. Near the top of the list were the six months of hell known as withdrawal. Half a year of feeling like your entire body was on fire and your brain was being ripped in two. Just above that was the feat of waking up the morning after you found April in the bathroom and not throwing yourself out a window. At the very top was the moment when the wall of denial you'd built up after reading her note came crashing down on top of you after you read the word "positive." You had pushed through it, and you were still standing.

So why was it so hard to pick up the damn phone?

The payphone had been mocking you for weeks. Every time you walked past it, you heard yourself making a promise to Mark that, thus far, you had broken. You had an excuse, for awhile. No spare change. However, you had found a quarter on the ground and felt like it would be wrong to walk away. You could do this.

Clenching your jaw, you forced yourself to grab the receiver and push the quarter into the coin slot.

There.

Now for the real challenge. You carefully spun each of the digits of the loft's phone number, careful not to make a mistake. Then you took a deep breath and waited.

"Speeeeaaaaak!"

He hadn't changed the answering machine. For some reason, this small fact took away most of your apprehension.

"Hey, it's me. I hope you're screening and not out, because I only have one quarter. So—"

"You called!" Why did he sound so surprised?

"I said I would."

Mark didn't respond for a moment, and you worried that he had hung up. "How's Santa Fe?"

Terrible, you imagined yourself saying. It's too quiet. There's no snow, and it's December! I miss my best friend. I wish I was home.

"It's pretty good," you lied.

"That's… good." Another awkward silence. Your breathing sounded abnormally loud in your ear.

"How's New York?"

"Cold," he answered with a sigh. "But there's heat in the loft, for once."

"That's great!" You hated that this is what you and Mark had come to. You were basically discussing the weather! "How's everyone?"

"Um… let's see. Maureen can't think of anything to protest this year. She's disappointed, but Joanne seems thankful. They only fight most of the time now, rather than constantly."

You laughed. "Good for them."

"Collins is… He trailed off, and the smile slipped off your face. "He's actually doing pretty well, I think. I talked to him yesterday. He'll be home for Christmas."

"That's—"

"Will you?" he cut you off.

You weren't sure what he wanted you to say. "Mark, I…"

"It's okay if you won't. I mean, it'll suck, but I guess it's up to you."

"I… don't think so."

"Oh." You felt intensely guilty. He had to realize that you couldn't go back, didn't he?

"I'm so sor—"

"I've been talking to Benny a lot lately, too. He's trying to make up for being such scum for so long. Like I said, we—I mean _I've_ got power."

You weren't sure which was harder for you to hear, Mark's near slip-up or Benny's name. Both were painful reminders of a life you were trying to leave behind.

"Because of..." you couldn't finish your sentence. You hadn't said her name in over a month.

"Um… yes." You waited for him to elaborate, psychically predict that you wanted to know if she was okay. "I guess that's it. How are you?"

Or… not. "I'm alright."

"I'm glad to hear it. Hey, I actually should probably g—"

"I'm sorry!" It tumbled out of your mouth, before you could think of something remotely intelligent to say. "Mark… I think I screwed up."

"Yes. You did." Mark sounded like he'd wanted to say this for awhile.

You burst out laughing, more out of surprise than amusement. A woman stopped to stare at you, and all you could do was laugh harder, so hard that tears sprung to your eyes. "Holy shit, Mark. That was the least helpful thing you've ever said."

"I thought I'd be truthful! Okay. Let me try again." He cleared his throat and adopted a false, overly sympathetic tone. "Well, Roger, we all make mistakes, and—"

He was cut off by you laughing again. And when you couldn't laugh anymore, you began to cry, sobs racking your body. You prayed that the woman who had been staring at you had moved on, because if she hadn't, this would be one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. Mark patiently waited as you cried, at least until the sobs turned into coughs.

"You okay?"

It took several gasping breaths before you could speak. "Yeah. Of course I am."

"Damn it, Roger! No you're not."

"I… I…"

Was Mark crying too? You like you think he wasn't. One of you needs to be the strong one. "You can tell me, Roger. You know that, right?"

"I'm tired," you admitted. "And confused. I'm sleeping in my fucking car." You took a deep sigh. "I don't know what to do."

"…And?"

You blinked. "Aren't you going to… tell me what to do?"

"I can't tell you what to do, Roger."

"Please… try?"

"_I don't know_. I don't even know what _I'm_ doing anymore!"

Startled, you nearly dropped the phone. "Mark..."

"If you're so confused… Why don't you just come home?"

It was a good question. You wished you had a good answer to match it. "I just… can't. Please understand that."

"I really wish I did." He paused, knowing he had lost the argument. "Hey, if we don't talk before then… Merry Christmas, okay?"

You swallowed. "Merry Christmas." You didn't want to hang up yet, but you had a feeling the payphone would cut you off soon. "Mark, I..."

You could picture Mark nodding as he realized what you were trying to say. "I miss you too. Bye, Rog."

"Mark, wait!"

He waited.

"What about—"

_Your allotted time has run out. Please insert another quarter for—_

You hung up and pressed your head against the cool surface of the telephone booth, not caring how many germs were probably on it. "Mimi," you finally said. "Mimi, Mimi, Mimi, Mimi. What about Mimi?"

You had fled New York to get away from her. You could admit that now. Santa Fe had been a means of escaping the painful mess that was your relationship with Mimi Marquez.

But she was _everywhere_.

The thought of her face kept you awake through the entire night, staring at the roof and thinking. You'd hear a woman laughing and long for Mimi's smile.

And her eyes…

You'd never really thought much about Mimi's eyes when you were together. To be honest, your concerns dealt mainly with other parts of her body. But ever since you had left New York, the image of her eyes as you had last saw them—hurt and confused, was all you could picture.

Shaking your head in disgust with yourself, you walked away, meaning to go back to your car and stare out the window for awhile (it wasn't as if you had anything better to do). And, suddenly, you made a decision.

You were going to get a job. Once you got that job, you were going to find an apartment—an apartment where you would actually pay your rent so you didn't get evicted and locked out. You were going to start over, and do something productive with your life.

You were going to forget all about Mimi's eyes. You were going to move on.

Spinning on your heel, you set off in the other direction where you remembered seeing shops when you first drove into town. The street was busy with Christmas shoppers: parents searching frantically for what their children asked for and—you winced—lovers searching for presents for their significant others.

Most of the stores were uninteresting, and, even worse, didn't seem to be hiring. After a while, you began to lose hope. Just as you were about to turn back around and give up, you saw it.

A small music shop was nestled between a jewelry store and one that sold souvenirs. You chuckled. Perhaps it wasn't the best way to "start over", but you weren't going to complain. You crossed the street and stood at the door awkwardly for a moment before pushing it open. A small bell above the door signaled your arrival.

A woman standing behind the counter gave you a small wave. "Hello! Can I help you with something?"

You opened your mouth to ask if she was hiring, but promptly closed it and gave her a smile instead. "I was walking down the street and thought I'd look around."

Chicken.

Telling yourself you'd bring up the prospects of you working there in a little bit, you began walking up and down the rows of instruments and amplifiers. The woman was watching you closely, so you refrained from touching anything.

"You play?" she asked.

You shrugged. "Guitar."

"Those are on the other side of the store," she informed you with a grin. You were aware of this, in fact, it had been the first thing your eyes were drawn to. You were purposely avoiding them. However, now that you had been called on it, you wandered over to them.

There was a much larger selection of guitars than you had expected in such a small store. You nodded. "Nice." You continued walking until you came across the one you had been hoping you wouldn't see. A Fender nearly identical to the one you had pawned to get here. All you could do was stare at it wistfully.

"You have good taste."

You looked up. "What?" you asked, not really comprehending what she had said.

"The guitar. It's a good one."

"Oh." You nodded stupidly. "Yeah, I guess it is." Your gaze fell back to it, and you heard a laugh behind you.

"You're welcome to pick it up and experiment with it, if you'd like. I won't hurt you." She paused. "Unless you break it."

"I really don't think—" But your hand had already reached out and grabbed the neck of the guitar. "Thank you."

It felt right to hold a guitar again. You closed your eyes and ran a finger along the edge of the body, half expecting to feel the small scratch from where you accidentally hit your guitar against the wall the day after your fifteenth birthday, just after you got it. The money you had gotten from your grandparents that year, in addition to months' worth of allowance, had finally given you just enough to buy the Fender you had seen in the store window and decided was perfect. You had proudly lugged it home and shown it to your father, declaring that you were going to be the next Eddie Van Halen.

He gave you a week.

Partly due to your aspirations of fame, but mostly just to prove your dad wrong, you spent the majority of your free time holed up in your room, playing through the chords until your fingers bled, and sometimes continuing even after that. Mark didn't understand—he didn't discover filmmaking until your junior year—and told you that you were insane. You tried to explain your obsession, but it was impossible for you to put into words. It was as if your guitar was the only thing that made sense to you. It definitely made more sense than your classes, or the girls that smiled at you in the hallways. So you played. Then you played more.

Senior year, you pulled Mark aside and told him that, after graduation, you were planning on skipping college, and going to New York instead. You were expecting some opposition from him, since he'd always been the more grades oriented of the two of you. You went on for several minutes about how there was nothing you wanted to do than play your guitar, and if you went to New York, you could get a band together, and you'd _make_ money instead of wasting on some useless degree. Pausing for a breath, you had stared at your best friend. Mark thought for less than thirty seconds before declaring that he was going with you.

So you had left Scarsdale, dragging nothing with you but your guitar and your best friend.

Not for the first time since you had left New York, you felt an intense wave of guilt. This time, however, it wasn't for the people you had left behind and hurt. You thought of your guitar, sitting on a shelf in the pawn shop, with its scratched and worn strings, neglected. Unless, you thought in horror, someone had bought it. You swallowed and resumed tuning the foreign guitar on your lap, trying not to think about its shiny flawless surface.

After a moment, almost out of habit, you picked out the notes of "Musetta's Waltz," for once playing them right and perfectly in tune. It only further reminded how far you were from home.

Not for the first time, Mimi's voice echoed in your brain.

"_Roger." A foot came into contact with your thigh. "You're ignoring me." _

_Your fingers stilled against the string. "Mimi. You're distracting me." _

"_But you like when I distract you, don't you?" She placed her hand on your cheek and turned your head so she was staring your eyes, and before you knew what was happening, she was kissing you. You placed your hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer, so preoccupied that you didn't notice she had pulled your guitar out of your lap and leaned it against the table leg until she had pulled away and you opened your eyes. _

"_Evil woman," you mock scolded, all while trying not to laugh. She had a triumphant smirk on her face. _

_She grinned. "You're right. You should _punish_ me!" She threw her arms up dramatically over her head, crossing them at the wrists. Rolling your eyes, you pulled her back to your chest, causing her to squeal in surprise. _

"_You couldn't think of anything more creative than 'You should punish me'?" you asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. _

"_Didn't work?" _

"_I didn't say that…" Another kiss, this one to her temple. "And you don't have to be jealous of my guitar, by the way."_

"_What?" _

"_My guitar." You gestured to your Fender. "We're just friends. She gets that I'm taken." _

_Mimi shook her head. "You're insane."_

"_Sure," you continued. "Sometimes she's jealous of the strange, pseudo-sexual relationship Mark has with his camera. 'Roger, why can't we have that?' she wonders. But ultimately, my dear guitar understands." _

"_I think this is the strangest conversation I've ever had." Mimi kissed your cheek. "What was that you were playing? It seems like all you ever play." _

_You sighed. "Thank you for that ever-so-lovely reminder of my inability to write music." _

"_Aw," she ran her fingers through your hair. "My poor baby. You—" _

"You look happy," the employee remarked.

You nodded. "It's… been awhile since I… yeah."

"You," she came out from behind the counter and pulled a stool up by you, "aren't from around here, are you?"

"New York," you answered quietly, strumming random strings.

Her eyes widened. "_City_?" At your nod, she scoffed. "Who is she?"

"Wh-what?"

"You left _New York City_ to come here. You must be running from something."

You debated arguing with her, but she wasn't wrong. You sighed. "Her name is Mimi."

"Haha! I knew it. What went wrong?" You didn't answer, and she instantly looked apologetic. "You probably don't want to talk about her, do you?"

"A lot of things," you said, surprising yourself more than her. "A _lot _of things went wrong."

"I see." She was obviously holding back something, and you had already figured out that that was extremely difficult for her.

"Go ahead," you said. "Ask."

"Did you love her? This… Mimi?"

"Yes, I—"

You stopped. Yes? Why had this just occurred to you? You blinked. Why hadn't you told her?

"What's wrong?"

"Yes," you repeated. "I did love her. I _do_."

She looked confused. "Then why—"

"I have to go," you announced, standing up.

"I'm sorry if I brought up a sore subject. I have trouble—"

"No!" you exclaimed. "You… you helped. A lot, actually." As you left the store, you turned to the girl that had unwittingly convinced you to go home. "What's your name?"

"Um… Angela. But my friend's call me—"

You cut her off. "Angel."

"Yeah! How'd you know?" Before you could stop yourself, you began to laugh. Angela looked concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah… I…" You tried to stop laughing, and finally regained your composure. "I'm Roger. Thanks."

Once you left the store, you practically sprinted to your car, surely scaring several people around you. You wondered how many New Mexicans you had confused that day. When you pulled yourself to a stop by the car door, you were breathing heavily. But you were happy. You were going home.

It was astounding how clear everything was all of a sudden. You had been so stupid. Stupid to think that leaving New York meant leaving her behind. It wasn't that easy.

And your song. That damn song that you had been searching for… it was her. Her and the eyes that had haunted you across the country.

You turned the key and started the car and you were on auto drive. Adrenaline coursed through your body, and you couldn't have stopped to sleep if you wanted to. After over a day of driving, the tall skyline of New York came into view and you were positive you were right to come home. You rolled down the window just to feel the bitter cold air of New York a week before Christmas and grinned.

About two hours later, you ran down Eleventh Street, clutching your newly repurchased guitar to your back. You hadn't thought this far in advance: what if Mark didn't want you home anymore? Regardless, you climbed the stairs to the top floor and knocked hard on the door of the loft.

The door opened. "What do you—Roger?"

"…Hey, Mark."

You met Mark's eyes and both of you stood in silence for a long moment. Finally Mark said:

"I quit Buzzline."

You grinned and held out your arms. "I came back."

Mark beamed, throwing his arms around you in a hug. "I can see that." Then he smacked you in the head. "What took so long?"

You rubbed your head and ducked under his arm. "Good to see you too, Cohen." You set your guitar down and glanced around the virtually unchanged loft. "I found my song. Figured I'd come back, you know?"

Mark shook his head. "Good for you."

"It really is a miracle how many things rhyme with 'eyes.'" You took a deep breath. "Do you know if Mimi is downstairs? I need to talk to her." Mark's smile slipped away immediately.

You swallowed. "What?"

Mark told you, and you suddenly felt as if the world had turned upside down.

"But… Mark, it's December. In _New York_."

"I'm so fucking sorry, Roger."

**--**

As I require closure, expect one more of these. Merry Christmas!


	5. Happy New Year

**(It's Gonna Be A) Happy New Year **

"New Year's Eve…" Mark narrates, panning his camera across the room. Instead of mocking him for it like you usually do, you let your eyes follow the camera's movement. The loft is cleaner than usual, even though Maureen seems to be determined to change that. You spot a bag a potato chips she left lying, open, on the floor near the couch. Several have spilled out, a few crushed where someone must have stepped on them. You'll have ants. Of course, you make no movement to clean them up—if anybody really gives a shit about ants, they'll do it themselves.

Mark continues his voice over. "…We were pleasantly surprised to find that we could open the door to our building today. Not only that, but the loft is at a temperature acceptable for sustaining human life!" He spins the camera towards himself for a moment, shooting a serious look at the lenses. "We have obviously entered the Twilight Zone."

You grin at that and glance at the hand of cards in front of you. It's useless. Across from you, Collins chuckles, and then taps his own cards aggressively against the table. "You're ever so witty, Mark. Now put down your girlfriend substitute and let's play! It's your turn."

Mark glares at him. You honestly don't know why he's so surprised, Collins always gets really into card games. Your best friend obediently sets down his camera, and then looks at his cards before turning to you. "Roger, do you have any nines?"

You roll your eyes. "Mark, you asked me that last turn, and did I have any then? Go fish."

Grumbling, he reaches out and blindly grabs a card, not bothering to look at it. "You could have picked one up your last turn. It's not completely far-fetched. Why the hell do we play this game all the time anyway? Isn't it for people like a fourth of our age?"

Collins is offended. "Go Fish is timeless, Mark! Timeless. Roger, any sixes?"

You hand over your six and shrug. "I just play because Mark completely sucks at it and I find it amusing to watch him complain. Tell me how you suck at Go Fish again?"

"I do not suck. It's mostly chance anyway." He finally looks at his cards again and grins. "Hey, that was a nine!" Mark lays down his pair triumphantly and you shake your head, looking away from the game and to Mimi, who is lying with her feet in Maureen's lap, getting her nails painted with a cheap bottle of pink polish. She catches your eye and smiles, waving sweetly, equally cheap bright blue on her fingers. You grin back, but are pulled away from her by the sound of Collins tapping the table again.

"Blondie! You're up."

"Mark, fours?" you drone, really only playing this game to pass the time until the New Year. Mark slaps the four of clubs down on the table in front of you, and you add it to your hand.

"Aren't you going to put down your pair?" he asks, confused.

"Um, no. I only have one four, Mark. That is not a pair. I know you're terrible at this game, but do I really need to explain _that_?"

"You mean you didn't have a four before I gave you one?"

"That would be correct." Mark annoyed is better than any comedy show you've ever seen. Just his expressions… Right now he looks like a cross between an angry gorilla and Maureen during the third week of the month.

"Then why the hell did you ask me for a four?"

"It was the first number that popped into my head, and I saw that you had one when you were waving your cards around like an idiot a second ago." You shift your gaze to Collins. "I get to go again, right?"

Collins has his hand in front of the mouth, but you can tell he's laughing. "You got the card you wanted," he says.

"Four?" you ask him.

He passes a card across the table and you shoot a look at Mark as you lay down your pair. He throws his cards on the table and shouts "I quit!" before picking up his camera and storming off to sit next to Joanne, who is watching Maureen paint Mimi's nails with an odd fascination.

"Pookie, are you sure you don't want me to do yours next?" Maureen asks in her typically loud voice.

Joanne nods slowly. "Positive."

Mimi starts laughing, and you find yourself smiling broadly at the sound. She's so happy, so alive, and it strikes you that it was just a week ago that you almost lost her. "Mark, how about you? I'm sure Maureen would love to give you a manicure."

"What do you think she did when she was the only girl living here?" you ask. Mark crosses his arms and Mimi laughs even harder, her head falling back.

You didn't lose her last week. And you have no plans to do so any time soon.

"Do you want your nails done, Roger?" Maureen offers, gesturing to the bottles on the floor next to the couch. "I think black would give you a sexy rocker vibe."

"The answer that comes to mind is 'no chance in Hell,' Maureen," you say. "Collins, any tens?"

"Go fish."

"Roger's already a sexy rocker, anyway," Mimi says, smirking. You open your mouth to say something stupid and romantic that will disgust all your friends, but will amuse Mimi, but are cut off by the phone ringing. No one makes a move to answer it, as it's common knowledge calls are screened here, but Mark sighs loudly.

"If it's my mom, I'm going to smash my head through the wall, okay?"

"I'll do it for you," you offer. He glares at you as "SPEEAAAAKKKKKK…" resounds through the loft. "You think we should change that thing?"

At least three of your friends scoff, and you turn your attention back to your cards.

"Hey… um… Mark and Roger. And probably everyone else, right? It's Benny. I was calling to uh…" On an impulse you stand up and go pick of the phone. Maureen gasps, and you roll your eyes.

"Benny."

"_Roger_?"

"No, it's Mark. You just don't recognize my voice because I've finally gone through puberty." Mark opens his mouth to complain, but you hold up a finger to silence him. "What do you want, Benny?"

"Um…" He pauses, and you want to laugh. He obviously wasn't expecting someone would pick the phone up. "I wanted to wish you all a happy New Year."

"Thanks." You hold the phone to your chest. "Benny says Happy New Year."

"You can tell Benny he can go to—"

You quickly return the phone to your ear. "Everyone, especially Maureen, thanks you and returns the sentiment."

Benny chuckles. "Sure they do, Roger." There's a long pause. "Roger, if you don't mind me asking…"

You wait a few seconds before sighing. "What?"

"How's Mimi doing?"

You're pleased that hearing him ask about Mimi doesn't elicit any jealousy from you anymore, and you smile and answer, "Really good."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Not as glad as I am, trust me."

"Probably not." You wonder why the loft is suddenly quiet and make a large show of rolling your eyes when you realize everyone in the room is dead silent and eavesdropping on your conversation. Benny isn't responding either which makes you feel even more awkward. Finally, he says "I should probably g—"

"Wait!" You notice Mark tilt his head to the side, apparently surprised.

"Yeah?"

"Um…" You take a deep breath. "Thanks."

"You… already said that."

"No, Benny. _Thanks_."

It takes a second for him to understand what exactly you're thanking him for, but when he gets it, he tells you it was nothing. But it was something huge, and even though you'll never like Benny, you're not going to forget that.

"Happy New Year, Benny," you wish him sincerely.

"Same to you, Roger," he says before hanging up. You set down the phone and wait for someone to ask you what you what that was about. The only one to have a reaction, however, is Mimi, who comes over and sits on your lap.

"I love you," she whispers. "Did you know that?"

"Mmm. I love you, too." You like telling Mimi how you feel about her just for the smile she gets on her face when you say it.

She points at a six in your hand, which you honestly forgot you were holding, and whispers "Ask for one of those." You oblige and Collins calls you a cheater, passing over the card nonetheless. Obviously bored, Mark returns to the game as well, pulling seven cards from the pile without a comment.

After nearly half an hour, Maureen sighs. "How much longer?" she asks Mark. Mark looks to you, and you, realizing you have absolutely no idea what time it is, continue to stare at Mimi. She jumps up.

"Nobody knows? Fuck, did we miss it?" Glancing frantically around the loft, she throws up her hands and wonders, "Why aren't there any clocks in here?"

"Good question," Mark says, looking around himself. "I have… no clue." You shrug in agreement.

"Roger, go look outside."

"How the hell is going out in the cold going to tell me what time it is?" Mimi's glare makes you move towards the window and step out onto the balcony. "Does anyone know what time it is?" you shout out.

The few people on the street glance up at you. One flips you off, another rolls their eyes. New York City… Finally, someone shouts up, "11:57!" You pass the news along, and the loft becomes a flurry of movement.

"Thank God we checked!"

"Where the hell is the champagne?"

"I mean, what would we have done if we missed midnight?"

"Seriously! Did Mimi drink it all?"

"Of course not! Shut up!"

"Are you sure, because I don't see it."

"Roger! Help me find the champagne so Mark shuts up."

You dramatically pull out a chair and look under the table. "I don't see it. Mimi, are you sure you don't—"

"I'm offended. I really am. My own boyfriend?"

After nearly a minute and a half of throwing couch pillows across the room and glancing under tables, there's a chuckle from Collins, who holds up the bottle. "I was hiding it from Mimi," he says. Mimi snatches it out of his hand and rolls her eyes.

"You guys make it sound like I'm an alchie or something."

"I don't know, Meems," you say, finding six cups and setting them on the card table, "you seemed pretty fond of the stuff last year."

"And at her birthday!" Mark chips in.

Mimi glares and passes you the champagne bottle so you can pour it in the cups. "You all suck." She frowns. "It's not midnight, right?"

You all stare at each other awkwardly, wondering if it's been three minutes yet, when the same voice from before yells up "Ten!" You take this as a cue to hand Mimi and Collins their cups of champagne and grab one for yourself.

"Nine!" Maureen squeals, jumping up from the couch and pulling Joanne with her. Joanne sighs and joins in her shouting, "Eight! Seven!"

Mimi and Collins come in on six, Mark on five, and you shrug and say "four." Mimi grins at you. When the countdown gets to one, Maureen runs out to the balcony and screams "Happy New Year!" loud enough for all of New York to hear. You take a small sip of champagne, wince at the taste and laugh as Mimi drains her cup and hugs Mark, who grins at you and holds out his cup. You mime clinking yours to it and take another sip. It really _is_ god-awful. Collins holds his glass up towards the ceiling, and you subtly do the same thing, thanking Angel for all she did for you. Without her, you wouldn't have—

"Baby! Happy New Year!"

You wouldn't have Mimi.

She throws her arms around you and buries her face in your neck, and you can't help but smile. "Happy New Year to you, baby," you whisper in her ear. Her lips crash into yours and you're nearly knocked over backwards; all you can think about is how wonderful everything is and how happy you are. It's a foreign feeling, but one you think you won't have a problem getting used to.

Mimi pulls away. "So," she says with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. "Any predictions for this year?"

You shrug and then wrap your arms around her waist. "It probably won't be as eventful as the last one."

"One would hope not," she agrees, laying her head on your shoulder. "But that's not really what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"Is this year going to be a good one?"

You consider the question for a few moments, trying to decide what exactly you want to say. To say 'no' is pessimistic, but 'yes' might jinx it. Finally, you settle for an answer somewhere in the middle.

"I don't know," you say, drawing circles on Mimi's back with your finger. "That depends."

--

Thanks for reading.


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